The Past Is the Present
by Namaste
Summary: House has always pushed people away. Just ask Stacy. Or Crandall. Postinfarction time period. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

He dreamed he was in Egypt. He was nine years old, and had fallen asleep in the shade of the pyramids in the middle of the day. He could feel a drop of sweat making its way down the side of his face. It tickled, and he wanted to wipe it away, but moving took too much energy, his arms felt too heavy.

"Greg?"

He heard her voice, but she was far away.

"Greg?"

A little closer this time. He wondered why she was moving. It was too hot to move.

He felt a hand touch his cheek, then a cool cloth wiping away the sweat. It felt good, and he sighed, turned toward her. A flash of pain shot out from his leg as he moved and he heard himself whimper. He woke, feeling the soft sand that had been under his back in the dream harden into the hospital mattress.

He opened his eyes, and saw Stacy looking down at him.

"Greg?" She pulled her hand away from his face, but hesitated with it still in the air, as if she wasn't sure if he'd allow her touch. Since he'd woken from the surgery, she'd kept her distance, rarely holding his hand, and then only maintaining a soft contact, a light grip on his fingers as if she was unsure how he'd react.

House looked away, unable to look at her, not knowing what he should say, not knowing what she expected him to say. He'd walk away, if he could.

"I was sleeping," he said. "You woke me up."

Stacy put her hand on the rail. House could see her knuckles turn white as she gripped the plastic. "You were hot," she said. "I was worried that the fever was back."

"Let the doctors worry about that. You shouldn't be thinking about any of my medical issues anymore."

Stacy released the rail, put her hands in her lap. She sat back.

House closed his eyes, tried to will himself back into the dream, away from the pain. But the pain was here now, and it wouldn't be ignored.

"I was going to go get some lunch," Stacy said. "I thought I'd pick up some soup from the deli. Lisa said it would be all right for you to have some too."

House shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"You weren't hungry at breakfast either." She leaned forward again, but kept her hands on her lap. "You need to eat."

"You're not my mother."

"Would you eat something if she asked you to? She'll do it."

House didn't answer, just closed his eyes again. Soft sand, he thought. Hot wind. The scent of Egypt in his nose -- of camels and fat tourists and diggers at the excavation sites. He took a deep breath but only picked up only the cool air conditioned scent of the hospital, the smell of cleansers and his own flesh. He wanted to take a shower, to stand there under his own power and feel the water washing over his skin, over his legs. The sponges and lukewarm water the nurses carried into his room each day were no good.

"Greg?" He heard the chair creak as Stacy pushed herself up, heard her steps as she moved toward the door, heard the door slide open. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"

He was quiet, didn't even bother to shake his head, just listened to her walk out the door.

"You should talk to her," Wilson said that night, after Stacy had gone home, after the nurse had hung another bag of IV antibiotics, another bag of Ringer's, and taken away his untouched dinner tray.

"I have," House said. He studied the way the fluid dripped from the IV tube into his arm, a steady mixture of sodium, potassium, calcium and antibiotics measured out drop by drop. If he wanted to, he could calculate the dosages, determine how much of each medication was in each drop.

"Not really," Wilson said. "Not about what matters."

House found himself counting the drops: one, two, three, four. It was easier than doing the calculations. It was like counting sheep, mindless, effortless. His head felt congested, stuffed full of pain meds and antibiotics and sedatives. He didn't want to think about what Stacy had done. It was easier not to think. Counting was all he could handle.

Wilson leaned forward. "She thinks you hate her," he said.

House looked away from the IV line, looked over at Wilson. The window was dark behind Wilson's head, the late summer sun already dropped below the horizon. He hadn't noticed when the sun set, when the hours slipped from unending day to an unending night. "Maybe I do," he said.

Wilson shook his head. "No, you don't."

"Just what I need," House said, "someone else telling me how to live my life."

"I'm not telling you anything you don't already know."

"Don't be so sure." House went back to watching the IV drip.

One. Two. Three. Four. He remembered the old game, pulling the petals off of daisies, and updated it with each drop. "I hate her," he thought to himself with the first drip. "I hate her not." Drip. "I hate her." Drip. "I hate her not." Drip.

"House." He heard Wilson's voice, but didn't look up.

"She hates me," he thought to himself, changing the game. Drip. "She hates me not." Drip. Maybe if he kept count until the bag emptied he'd finally have an answer.

"House?"

"What?" He stopped counting, forced himself to turn away. Wilson was staring at him, as if he was trying to read House's mind. He leaned forward, didn't show any of the hesitation Stacy did, didn't show the sorrow that was always on his mother's face.

"It's going to be all right, you know," he said. "You'll figure it out, you and Stacy."

"You don't know that."

"She loves you, and one of these days, you're going to remember that you love her too."

"You don't know that, either."

House looked away from him and looked at the door, hoping to see the nurse coming through with his evening meds. He wished he still had the PDA pump, but Cuddy had said it was time to get off the morphine, find something else. He'd still been doped up at the time, and like an idiot, he'd agreed with her.

"You've got another thirty minutes to go," Wilson said as he checked his watch. He looked at House again, glanced up at the numbers on the monitor behind House's shoulder. "I could get her now, if you want."

House wanted to tell him no, to tell him that he could wait, that he could handle the pain for a little longer. It would have been a lie. He wanted to see the white cup in the nurse's hand when she walked through the door, to see the small white Percocet tablets and the smaller sleeping pill that let him make it through the night. He wanted to swallow them down, feel the real world grow fuzzy, let it slip away along with every question he didn't know how to answer.

He nodded. "Sure," he said. "Great."

Wilson got up, slid the door open and stepped out. House watched him turn left, toward the nurses' station, then disappear from view. He looked at the IV again. Drip. One. Drip. Two. Drip. Three. Drip. Four.

House dreamed he was in Mississippi, lying in the back of Crandall's car, trying to sleep as Crandall hit every bump in the road. It was dark and the windows were open, the hot, moist delta air streaming through the windows, spinning in humid whirlwinds over his body.

He rolled onto his side and wiped the sweat off his face with a t-shirt someone had thrown into the back of the car a day or two before. He wasn't sure if it was his or Crandall's. He was pretty sure there wasn't much of a difference anymore.

He felt the car shudder and gravel pinged up against the sheet metal. It suddenly jerked to the left.

"Jesus, Crandall, you trying to kill us?"

"Sorry," Crandall shouted back, his voice blending with the roar of the wind and the creaking of the rusted floorboards.

"If you're going to fall asleep, just pull over," House said, "or let me drive."

"I'm not falling asleep," Crandall said. "There was something on the road. A dog, or a skunk or something."

"You can't tell the difference?"

"I was concentrating on not hitting it, rather than identifying it, G-Man."

House pushed himself up until he was sitting with his back against the hard vinyl of the passenger's seat. Crandall hit another bump and his head banged against the window. "Jesus, Crandall."

"Sorry."

"Pull over and let me drive," House said. "I'm not going to be able to sleep anyway."

"What, and listen to you bitch some more about that test you've got next week, and how you're not going to have time to study if we don't break every speed limit on the way back? No way." House felt the car pick up speed as Crandall spoke. "If you were smart, you'd just blow it off. It's just a test."

Crandall hit another bump, and House heard the springs squeak under him. "Or better yet, quit school," Crandall yelled from the front seat. "Come back on the road full time."

House sighed, slumped against the upholstery. He could smell freshly turned earth, and guessed that there was a freshly planted field somewhere out there in the dark. "I can't quit."

"Why not?"

House just shook his head. He didn't know how to explain it, and Crandall would never understand anyway.

Crandall ignored his silence. "Just for a while," he said. "The band's really coming together now. Jack's brother-in-law says he knows a guy who thinks he can get us some time in the studio. The world needs a jazz musician more than it needs another doctor."

"I'll remind you of that next time I have to drag you into an emergency room with a broken nose."

"I'm serious, G-Man. Doctors are a dime a dozen, but real musicians -- we're a dying breed."

"Right," House said. "That's because we're all broke and starving to death."

Crandall was nearing the crest of the hill, the engine whining as he tried to push it harder. House saw the headlights of an approaching car in the other lane, saw them come closer. The other car topped the hill first and its headlights dropped down, the high beams glaring through Crandall's car.

House raised his arm to block the light.

"Sorry about that, Dr. House." The voice wasn't Crandall's. House cracked his eyes open and saw the tall form of the night nurse in the bright light of the fluorescents bulb next to his bed -- Randy or Ricky or something. "I was hoping this could wait until morning, but Dr. Cuddy left specific orders."

The nurse hung a fresh IV bag on the stand, then flicked off the light. "You try to get some more sleep." The nurse walked around the end of the bed in the dim light from the hall. "I'll leave you alone now," he said, and slid the door closed.


	2. Chapter 2

  
He was ten years old and holding a baseball, the cover scuffed and stained. He tried to stretch his fingers along the seams to match the way his father had shown him how to grip it. Maybe if he could, he could finally throw it hard enough, far enough, straight enough.

He cocked his arm back and threw, groaning when his muscles coiled and released. He watched as the ball dropped off course, landing short of the target.

"Harder Greg, like I showed you," Dad said, then picked up the ball and walked back to the mound.

Greg took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He wanted to tell Dad that it was too hot to practice, but Dad would only say that he should be grateful that he was taking the time to coach him.

"Most fathers don't care about helping their sons," Dad would say, "but I do."

Dad stepped up next to him and showed him again how to hold the ball, his fingers wrapping around the leather. "Now, do it again."

Greg held the ball, cocked his arm and threw, his muscles aching with the motion. The ball fell even shorter this time.

Dad handed him another ball.

"How many more?" Greg asked.

"You complaining?"

"No, sir. It's just ..." he couldn't bring himself to look up at his father. Instead he looked down, noticed that Dad's dress shoes had gotten dusty. He wondered if he'd have to shine them tonight. "My arm hurts," he said.

"Of course it does," Dad said. "You're working your muscles. You've got to hurt if you're going to get better, right?"

Greg nodded.

Dad held out the ball. "You ready?"

Greg stared at it.

"You ready?" It wasn't Dad's voice anymore.

House blinked and the ball disappeared. He blinked again and the baseball diamond faded away.

"Dr. House?"

He blinked again and saw his foot on a circular balance board, the grass and dirt replaced by gray linoleum.

"Maybe we should take a break." House looked up at the therapist. Laura something, or Laurie, or Lauren. Wilson probably knew.

He shook his head. "I was daydreaming," he said. He'd taken more Percocet before the session, so he'd be ready. Maybe that was a mistake. "Let 's get this over with."

She stared at him for a moment before she finally nodded. "OK, let's go counter clockwise this time."

House knew what he was supposed to do: gently rotate the disc in a steady circle as its edges touched the floor. He even knew why: to retrain his lower leg muscles to compensate for movement he'd lost forever from the missing quad muscles.

Knowing didn't help. He moved smoothly along the inner edge, working his way from his toes back toward his heel. Then the motion stuttered to a stop, his muscles unable and unwilling to follow his commands.

"Take your time," she said.

House gripped the edge of the table where he sat, feeling the rough pad under his palm, the steel frame under his fingers. He took a deep breath and pushed. What was left of his quad let out a sharp twinge, and he felt the board jump forward, moving in a jerking spasm before coming to rest again.

She pasted on a smile. "That's good," she said. "That's getting better."

House didn't say anything about the lie they both knew she'd told.

"One more time," she said.

House was looking at the floor, at the blue board, willing his nerves and muscles to complete the circle when he heard her steps, the rhythm he'd noticed that first night she'd come to him, crossing the room in seven steps -- steady, sure, certain, uncompromising -- the way she walked telling him she knew what she wanted, and how to get it.

Stacy.

The tips of her navy blue pumps came into his line of vision, and he looked away, concentrated on the edge of the board. He pushed, felt the pain, but the board didn't move. He tried again, his breath catching in his throat. The disc gave a slight jump forward, then stopped again.

"That's enough for now," Lauren or Laura or Laurie said. She bent down and reached forward, one hand on the balance board, the other held just off to the left of his ankle. She looked up at him, her eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.

House glanced over, saw Stacy watching him. He looked down, still feeling her gaze on the back of his neck, like a guillotine hanging there, ready to fall. He was certain she saw through him. "I can do it," he said.

He braced his left leg against the floor and let go of the table, sliding both hands under his right leg and lifted. He felt his hamstring tighten, but the rest of his leg was useless and limp. He hated the way it hung there in his grip, the dead thing that it had become. The therapist slid the board out from beneath his foot, then helped him lower it to the floor. She smiled up at him. "Good job," she said.

House grabbed the table again for support. He hated the therapist, with her fake smiles and useless cheer. He hated the room with its soft surfaces and insipid inspirational posters on the wall. He hated himself, for being weak and being here, and he hated her, for making him like this.

"I'll give you a few minutes," Laurie or Lauren or Laura said, and was gone.

House finally looked over at Stacy. She mistook his look as an invitation and sat next to him. "Hey," she said.

House glanced over at her, at the way she crossed one leg casually over the other, the way she was able to sit there, without thinking about it, without planning each move.

He looked back down at his own body, thinking he could see the damage to his leg even through the thick cotton of his sweat pants, the way the heel of his right foot didn't quite touch the ground, the way he was afraid that if he let go of the table, he'd lose his balance.

"Why are you here?" He looked over at Stacy. She was wearing the dark blue suit she usually wore when she had a court date and wanted to impress someone, her makeup was perfect, her nails with a fresh coat of dark red polish.

"I wanted to see you."

"I don't," he said, and looked away again, out across the room instead, with its padded tables and balance bars and exercise equipment tucked into every corner. "I already told you that. I don't want you coming to my sessions."

Stacy shook her head slightly. "One of your therapists told me I should come. He said it was important that I learn more about what you'll need once you get home."

"If it's important, I'll tell you what you need to know." House wished he could leave, but his crutches were against the wall, with Stacy between him and them. "I've told you already. I don't want you talking to my doctors any more."

House saw Stacy flinch. She looked down for a moment, and he wondered if she'd walk away. He wondered if he'd be happy if she did.

She looked back at him. "You let James come."

"That's different."

"Is it different because he's James? Or because he's not me?"

"You already know the answer to that," he said.

Stacy uncrossed her legs, leaned toward him. "I'm not going to let you do this."

"Do what?" House knew he'd raised his voice, and saw one of the therapists take a few steps toward them, then stop. He wondered how many fights they'd seen in that room, how many arguments.

"I won't be ignored," Stacy said.

House didn't say anything, didn't even look at her. She wanted a fight. She loved to argue, to push her point, to force others to concede to her will. It was what made her a good lawyer, and he'd seen the way her eyes would shine when she had a court date, just the anticipation of what she'd say, how she'd refute the words tossed out by the other side.

They always had their best sex after they fought.

But if she wanted a fight now, he wouldn't give it to her.

"You can't shut me out forever," she said.

If it had been a bet, House would have taken it.

"What did you say to Stacy?" Wilson asked that night when he showed up in House's room with a bag of White Castle sliders and fries.

"Nothing." House reached inside the bag, took out two more burgers.

"You made her cry."

House shrugged. "It wasn't anything I said."

Wilson unwrapped a burger, and sat staring at it. "This is disgusting," he said. "My arteries are clogging just looking at it." Wilson hated White Castle. The only time he'd ever go was when House dragged him there after the bars closed. And the only time he stayed at the bars until closing time was when he'd cheated on Bonnie, and he didn't want to go home, afraid to face her and angry with himself.

"So don't eat it," House said, and grabbed Wilson's burger. He wasn't hungry, but it was better than listening to another lecture.

Wilson watched him chew and swallow. He looked in the bag but didn't take out another burger. Instead he wadded up his empty wrapper and tossed it in the garbage can.

House swallowed the last bite. He knew there were more in the bag, but he let them sit. Somehow they didn't taste quite right without the buzz of beer and whiskey on his tongue. He caught the look in Wilson's eye that he was disappointed he hadn't eaten more, but he didn't say anything. Instead he leaned back too, both of them slouched back on the sofa that House suspected Cuddy had wrangled from a residents' break room.

"Stacy's only trying to help, you know," Wilson said.

House turned to look at him. "I think she's helped enough."

Wilson shook his head slightly, but didn't argue.

"So what's going to happen when you go home, you planning on not speaking to her then too?"

House shrugged. "Maybe."

Sometimes he could almost convince himself that it would work out when he got home. When he was home, everything would be normal again -- or almost everything. Maybe they could ignore how everything else had gone to hell.

"Talking won't change anything," House said.

Wilson turned to look at him. "And if you don't say anything, then nothing's going to change either."

House leaned forward and put both hands under his leg. He lifted it up and managed to slide his foot off the coffee table and onto the floor. "Maybe there's been enough change," he said.

House dreamed he was on stage. He recognized the piano under his fingers, the crappy upright at the bar on 12th with a B flat key above middle C that always stuck when it was hot and humid outside. Like tonight.

Crandall was behind the beat, like he always was when he'd been drinking too much and it was late in the last set. House felt like leaving him hanging there, seeing how much worse he'd get before everything fell apart, but Jamerson stepped in to take his solo and let Crandall off the hook. House eased into the key change and followed Jamerson down Green Dolphin street.

House wiped the sweat off his face when they finally ended. Crandall walked over, his sax in one hand, the case in the other. He plopped the case down on the bench beside House.

"Listen to that," he said, and pointed out toward the dark room where House could hear a few scattering bits of applause. "That's like a drug. Don't tell me you're going to give that up."

"It's pretty lousy quality if it's a drug. Reminds me of the weed you tried to grow in your basement."

"That was good stuff."

"It was crap, and you're a lightweight." House stood and took his jacket from the chair at the back of the stage.

He stepped away from the piano, away from the stage, away from Crandall. One last night, he'd told him. One last time.

"You'll be back tomorrow, right?"

House turned to see Crandall following him, leaving his sax and the case on the bench. "I leave in the morning, you know that."

"Come on. One more show -- or two. We've got the Firefly next week."

House spun around, nearly hitting Crandall. "Next week I'll be buying books and kissing up to a whole new set of professors, since you screwed up everything here."

"Hey, I didn't screw up anything."

"You're the one who came up with the great plan that I should cheat."

"Yeah, but I didn't tell you to get caught," Crandall said. "Besides, you could have studied before you came out for the gig."

House didn't want to admit Crandall was right, but he'd been busy making up for missed lab hours before the trip south. He'd planned on catching up sometime before the trip back, but Crandall had dragged him out to one bar, then another. "You'll love this place," he'd said, sometime after 3 a.m. "It's the real thing. They said that Robert Johnson even played here back in the day."

He'd been wrong. It was just another crappy hole in the wall with another crappy story they piled on thick to lure in idiots like Crandall.

Everything went to hell after that. The internship was gone, his grades and credits for a year yanked out from him. All he had now was the promise of a fresh start at Michigan.

And Crandall.

"Quit now, and you'll be sorry," Crandall said, holding House back when he tried to leave. "The Firefly, G-Man. They want us. They know talent. They know we're going places."

"It's a 20-minute opening spot in the middle of the week," House said. "The only reason you got the call is that their regulars are out of town."

"Doesn't matter. Once they hear us, we're in." Crandall leaned toward him. "We need you, G. We'll never find another piano player in time."

"But I don't need you," House said, and turned away, ignoring Crandall's fingers on his sleeve.

He made it seven steps toward the door before Crandall caught up with him.

"I suppose we could grab Jules for Tuesday. He's not that bad," he said. "How about we grab lunch before you go? We'll make it a going away party. I'll buy."

House shook his head. "I'm leaving first thing." He'd wanted to leave two days ago, but let Crandall talk him into sticking around long enough for the Saturday gig. He'd already packed what he'd need, leaving everything else behind.

"So let's grab something now."

House shook his head and kept walking, making his way past the small tables. The house lights had been turned up and the last few stragglers were making their way out of the room.

Crandall grabbed his arm again, pulling him around. "At least give me your address," he said.

"Why?"

Crandall couldn't hide the the confusion on his face. He never could. "Why? So I can track you down when I'm up there. We're still friends, right?"

House stared at him. The only thing they'd ever had in common was the music. And now that was gone. He turned and walked away.

"Admit it, G-man, you're going to miss me when I'm gone," Crandall shouted after him.

House turned to take one last look back: the tiny room with its low ceilings turned a pale yellow by years of cigarette smoke, the mismatched seats, the tables stained by whiskey, beer and wine.

And Crandall, standing in the center of it all.

House blinked, and he was gone. Instead she was there -- dark red fingernails, a navy blue suit and pumps.

"You're going to miss her too," Crandall's voice whispered in his ear.

House startled awake, opening his eyes to the semidarkness of the hospital room. He couldn't tell what time it was, or how long he'd been sleeping. He could still smell the grease from Wilson's burgers and heard the low murmur from nurses as they passed by his door.

He rolled onto his back. He hadn't seen Crandall for more than ten years, hadn't thought of him for nearly that long. Now Crandall wouldn't leave House alone. It didn't make sense.

He reached down with one hand to adjust his leg to a more comfortable position. The pain wasn't too bad yet. He might be able to make it through the night without another pill.

House lay back against the thin pillows. Dreams, he thought. Nightmares. Side effects.

It wasn't Crandall, it was the pills.

He'd talk to Cuddy in the morning, get her to switch out the Percocet for something else. Something that worked. Something that would let him sleep. He took a deep breath, tried to quiet his mind. Something different. That's all he needed. Something new.


	3. Chapter 3

He dreamed he was floating, his body suspended in warm water, kept from drifting off into nothingness only by his head and shoulders propped against the low concrete edge of the pool. It was warm and humid, the late summer night giving up none of the heat of the day.

At home the fans only moved hot air from one end of the room to the other. Dad was gone, out on maneuvers for another two weeks, and it had been easy to sneak past Mom after she went to bed, even easier to pick the lock on the gate outside the officers' club and skirt past the empty deck chairs and slip into the water -- sweat and dust and sticky skin disappearing into the clear water, washing him clean.

He raised one arm out of the water, studied the way the skin on his fingertips had wrinkled, then lowered it back down, feeling the slight ripple in the still water from his movement. He stretched his legs forward, and frowned when he felt his feet touch solid surface at the far end. Mom would complain again about another growth spurt, shake her head when she saw the way his jeans had somehow gotten too short in just a few weeks, sigh and mutter about needing to buy him another pair.

"Sorry," he'd said after the last time she'd gone shopping for him, but she'd just laughed.

"You're twelve, Greg," she'd said. "I'd be worried if you weren't growing."

Before Dad left, he'd had Greg stand next to him, telling him to stand up straight until he saw that Greg was only about a half-head shorter than him now. "You better stop growing soon," he'd said, "or you'll be too tall to be a pilot."

Greg wasn't sure if that was a bad thing.

He stretched again, let the water carry him away from everything and everyone. He stared up at the sky, at the stars that managed to break through the haze hanging over the base. He should go home, but he didn't want to. He wanted to stay here, connected to nothing, with no one to please, no one to ask where he'd been, what he'd done, what he wanted.

He heard something bang against the wooden gate hard, once. Twice.

Someone knew he was there. Maybe if he was quiet, they'd go away.

The bang came again.

"House?"

He opened his eyes and sat up, water still clinging to the hair on the back of his neck, the white porcelain of the bathtub cool against his back, the bathroom coming into focus, the overhead light, rather than stars shining over him.

"House?" Wilson's voice again. "You OK in there?"

House scrubbed his hands over his face, saw the way his fingers were wrinkled from the water. "Yeah," he said.

He'd hoped the dreams would fade. They hadn't. At least Crandall hadn't made a repeat appearance since he started on the Vicodin. He looked over at the door, saw the outline of Wilson's shoe blocking the light from the hall.

"You've been in there a while," Wilson said. "I thought I'd check if you were ready to get out."

House sighed. The water was getting cool, and his muscles had finally loosened up. If he didn't move soon, they'd just cramp up again. "Yeah," he said.

Wilson opened the door, stepped in and closed it behind him. House couldn't see if Stacy was on the other side, but wouldn't be surprised if she was. She seemed to be everywhere since he came home, lurking behind every door, asking the same questions again and again.

"Do you need anything?"

"What can I get you?"

"Are you comfortable?"

He wasn't. He never would be again. She should know that.

Wilson put a towel on the toilet seat, draped another across his shoulder, then waited. He didn't ask any stupid questions. He didn't have to. They'd both been through it enough times. Instead he let House set the pace.

House sighed and nodded. He sat up straighter while Wilson crouched next to the tub. He waited until House slung one arm over his shoulder, then wrapped his own arm around House's torso.

He looked House in the eye, and House nodded.

"On three," Wilson said. "One. Two. Three."

Wilson rose up steadily, taking House's weight as House scrambled to get his left leg under him, the water sloshing out from the tub to soak the mat that Stacy had placed on the floor before he'd been settled in for the bath.

If he had to, House could handle a shower on his own, the crutches under his arms and a step or two into the stall, then seating himself on the stool for a few minutes under the hot water. But lately he'd had daydreams -- waking nightmares -- of falling on soap slick tiles, of breaking something, of losing even more.

He wondered if Wilson had somehow sensed that. He was always nearby, sitting or standing in the bathroom with him. It settled House's nerves.

But the showers don't last for long, and stuck there on the stool, he feels like he never really gets clean. His muscles seem even more tense after maneuvering himself in and out of the stall. So every few days, there's this. The ritual of the bath. Of easing down into the hot water, and letting himself go. Letting himself be alone. Completely alone.

It's good. It's nice. But it doesn't last. Nothing good ever lasts. He has to pay for the peace with this uselessness. This waiting for help. Any relief he finds is replaced with clumsy scrambling to get out, of rising up out of the water only with Wilson's help -- the warmth and grace of the water dropping away.

Wilson waited for House to steady himself on his feet, then for House's nod and took his weight again, compensating for missing muscle as House put just enough weight onto his right leg to allow him to step his left foot out of the tub, then Wilson shifted once more as House maneuvered his right leg up and out.

Once they made it over to the toilet seat, House lowered himself down and Wilson handed him the other towel. House rubbed his hair dry, wiped down his arms and face, then dropped the towel down onto his lap, covering the scar, as if he could hide what had happened. The hollow gouged out of his leg that reminds him of the strip mines he'd seen in the foothills of the Appalachians. The damage Stacy left behind. Her permanent tattoo on his body.

Wilson turned his back and pretended he didn't notice it. Instead he opened the drain in the tub, and mopped up the water from the floor. House could see the damp outline of his arm on Wilson's white shirt, and noticed that Wilson's dress shoes had gotten wet.

"Is it a kid?" House asked.

Wilson turned, the sponge in his hand damp from a puddle. "What?"

House nodded at Wilson's shoes, at his dress shirt, at the dress pants he wore rather than the jeans he'd usually grab at home before he came by. "Whoever kept you late at work."

Wilson shook his head. "No," he said, "mother of two."

"Anything you should have done differently?"

Wilson shook his head again, went back to mopping up the puddle.

"But you still feel guilty," House said.

"Not guilty, just ..." Wilson stood up, put the sponge in the cabinet. "Some people just don't deserve the crap life shoves at them." He glanced at House for a moment, then turned away.

"And some do?"

"That's not what I meant."

"You could have. I can think of a few people who deserve at least a nasty case of the flu." House shivered slightly as the water cooled on his skin. "Or shingles, maybe."

Wilson handed him another towel, and leaned back against the wall, waiting while House finished drying himself off. House glanced at him, saw the way that he couldn't seem to stop his fingers from twitching, the way he kept shifting his weight. Something was still eating at him, and he wondered if Wilson couldn't stop thinking about the patient, or if it was something else that wouldn't let him rest.

"You know," Wilson said, and House braced himself. It wasn't the patient on Wilson's mind. "You should ask Stacy to help you out."

"You tired of me already?"

Wilson put his hands out in front of him, as if he could wave away House's thoughts. "It's not that," he said. "I don't mind helping out, you know that."

The stupid thing was, Wilson really meant it.

"But Stacy wants to help too," Wilson continued. He sighed and shook his head. "She needs to help. She needs to know that you still need her."

"Right. I keep forgetting that this is all about Stacy." House tossed his towel into the open hamper in the corner of the bathroom. "You'll have to forgive me, my memory is a little hazy. Must be the drugs."

"House ..." Wilson sat on the edge of the tub, his elbows on his knees. House found himself thinking that the tub must still be wet, that Wilson must be uncomfortable sitting there, but also weirdly grateful that he didn't have to look up at him. "I'm not saying you don't have a reason to be angry or upset, but you're going to make things worse."

"How much worse could they be?"

Wilson shook his head. "Maybe you don't want to know."

Worse was all he had now, House thought. Worse was that mangled mess of a muscle. Worse was the pain that never went away. Worse was the pills and the rehab. Worse was the crutches. Maybe he'd been wrong to ever expect a life that could be better than what he'd had. Worse was what had been waiting for him all along.

Wilson got up and handed House the fresh clothes that had been hanging on the door. "Give me a yell when you need some help," he said. "Or ask for Stacy. It might do you both some good."

Wilson waited until House gave a slight nod, and left the room. Once he'd closed the door, House shook his head. Good? Sometimes he wasn't even sure if anything had ever been good at all.

"I was just going to get something to drink," Stacy said that night, after Wilson had finally gone home. "Do you want something?"

House shook his head. Beer, he wanted to say, or Scotch, but Stacy would have just given him a lecture about mixing his meds with alcohol.

Stacy stood in the doorway, for a moment, as if she expected him to change his mind, then turned and went into the kitchen.

He heard her getting a glass out of the cupboard, heard the water running. He turned up the TV and tried to block her sounds. She only seemed to get louder -- the sound of the freezer door opening, the sound of ice cubes tumbling against glass.

"Are you sure?" she called out from the kitchen, and House turned up the volume again.

Stacy walked back into the room and sat at the far end of the couch. She curled her legs up onto the cushions, and House slouched back further into the pillows on his side of couch.

"You've seen this before," she said, and nodded toward the TV as Harrison Ford tried to send out a Morse code signal from Air Force One.

"That makes it easier to follow the plot," House said.

Stacy took a drink, and watched the screen with him for a few minutes. Maybe she'd be happy just sitting there, just being with him, rather than trying to fix him -- to fix everything that she'd screwed up.

He felt her gaze turn from the TV to him, and tried to ignore it. Wilson was wrong. There was nothing she could do to help.

"Greg ..." she said, but then stopped. He didn't bother looking her way, and after a moment she sighed, slid her legs down off the couch. "I've got a deposition I need to read over." She stood, taking her glass with her. "I'll be in the bedroom if you need anything."

He nodded, and listened to her steps pass behind the couch and into the bedroom. He heard the door squeak, but she didn't close it all the way.

House put down the remote and slid over to stretch out on the couch, using his hands to lift his right leg up onto the cushions. He'd be fine. He didn't need anything. Not from her, anyway.

House dreamed that something woke him up. He couldn't remember falling asleep but he lay there on the couch, blinking as the room took shape. There was an old movie playing on the TV and the lamp on the table was still burning bright.

Something was wrong, but he heard someone banging on the door again before he could figure out what it was. He struggled to his feet as they knocked again -- four hard raps in quick succession. He stumbled to the door.

He swung it open to see Crandall grinning at him. "Hey G-Man," he said, "bet you thought you got rid of me."

House leaned against the door frame. This wasn't home. Not anymore. He recognized the hallway beyond Crandall from the old house on Washington where he'd rented a tiny studio apartment his second year at Michigan.

He rubbed his eyes. Crandall was still there. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Making a social call," Crandall said. "You going to invite me in?"

Crandall took a step forward, but House didn't move. He looked at House, baffled for a moment, then smiled and seemed to call House's bluff. "Come on, open up," he said, and pushed against the door. House found himself letting it swing open, without even meaning to.

It took Crandall only six steps to reach the middle of the room and he stood there, next to the couch that House had picked up from the curb the weekend after the university's semester ended, the old stereo on a rickety stand that he'd hauled with him from Baltimore, the milk crates filled with albums -- Miles Davis' face staring back at them from the cover of Birth of the Cool.

"I love what you've done with the place," Crandall said as House closed the door.

"You come all this way just to bitch?"

"I came to see you," Crandall said. "Bitching is an added bonus."

House walked further into the room, but didn't sit down. Sitting would only make Crandall feel comfortable, make him want to stay.

Crandall took a seat anyway. "Did you miss me?"

House stared at him. He could almost picture Crandall on stage, hear him follow House anywhere, as if he could read House's mind -- know where he was going before House even knew; could see him in any of a dozen dives, lapping up every story from the old jazz hands; could see him laughing at some stupid joke; could see him waving House over to the table where he'd found the prettiest girl in town, who somehow always had a gorgeous friend.

"No," House lied.

Crandall just rolled his eyes. "Aren't you going to ask me how I found you?"

House shook his head. "You asked around the hospital," he said.

"All I has to do was ask where I could find the biggest jerk in town. They all knew who I was talking about." Crandall shrugged. "Of course the hard part was finding where you lived. Nobody knew. You're a mystery man there." He waved his hand in a general circle. "Now that I see this place, though, I know why."

"And more bitching." House finally sat on an arm of the sofa.

"The trick was to find the right person," Crandall said, "someone who knew someone who knew where to find your file."

House wasn't surprised that Crandall could track it down, could charm just the right person. He'd always had a way with words, a way of getting people to tell him stories, to trust him. It was why House always let Crandall book their gigs, and how he got them into places they never would have gotten into on their own.

The problem was that Crandall always seemed to trust everyone else too, buying into every lie, believing that each woman was the right one for him. So it had been up to House to get rid of them -- for Crandall's own good.

"So you found me. Mystery solved," House said. "Now you can leave."

"Is that any way to treat your best friend? After I came all this way?"

"I never said we were friends," House said. It was Crandall who had appointed himself House's best friend, the second time they'd met, the first time they'd played together, the rich sound of Crandall's sax winding its way into the blues riff that House played, changing it, making it lighter, turning it into something new.

All they'd ever had was nothing more than an improvisation, held together only by the loose interpretation of a melody. House had never expected it to last. Crandall never expected it to end.

Crandall stood up. "Come on," he said. "I'll buy you a drink. That should make you happy."

House glanced at the clock. "It's after one o'clock," he said.

"So? The bars are still open."

"I've got to present a case on rounds at seven." House nodded down at his notes spread out on the floor.

Crandall pushed one of the papers away with his boot. "One drink," he said.

House shook his head.

"You're getting old, G-Man," Crandall said. "I remember when you said the party didn't start until the bars closed." He sighed, shook his head. "At least come to the show tomorrow. We're on the bill at the Michigan Theater."

House already knew. Crandall's band had picked up a new manager and a few new gigs since he'd left, including an opening spot for Corea's midwest swing. He'd told himself he wasn't jealous when he saw the announcement, but knew that was a lie.

"I'll put you on the guest list," Crandall said.

"I'm on call," House said.

"Trade."

House shook his head. Part of him wanted to go. He'd almost bought a ticket when they went on sale. He'd even had the money. But he didn't. Why should he? Just to remind himself of what he'd lost?

"Come on," Crandall said, "it's a free pass. I'd put you down for two, if I knew you hadn't pissed off everyone in town already."

"Don't bother."

"God, but you're in a crappy mood."

"So leave," House said. "It's not like I invited you to visit."

"Christ, what's with you?" Crandall asked. "You'd rather just sit here by yourself? I'm only in town for a day."

"I've got better things to do," House said.

"I'm not asking you quit school, it's just ..." Crandall shook his head. "I missed you."

House shrugged. That wasn't his fault.

"And I was hoping you'd come. It's tough being the opener, you know? No one's listening to us. It's like we're not even there. It'd be nice to know there's a friendly face in the audience, that's all. I thought you could do me a favor."

House remembered this, the Crandall that always seemed to need something. The Crandall who wanted reassurances. The Crandall that asked him to stick around for another set when House was supposed to be somewhere else. The Crandall that needed House all the time. The Crandall that told him he'd make sure House had time to study between gigs.

"You knew what to expect when you took the job," House said. "It's not my job to make your life easier."

Crandall sighed, rubbed his eyes. He looked older than House remembered, older than he should have been. "You can be a real bastard sometimes, you know? Guess I'd forgotten about that."

House walked over to the door, opened it. "Thanks for stopping by," he said. "It's been a real treat."

Crandall stared at him for a few moments, then turned to look down at the notes, and finally at the empty room. "You should have come out tonight, G-Man. It's not good for you to be all alone."

"But I like it that way."

Crandall shook his head. "That's what you always say, but it's not true."

"You don't know that."

"I know you better than you think, G." Crandall walked over to the door. "And I know that one of these days you actually will be alone, if you're not careful." He looked back toward the apartment, and the room seemed to change shape, grow larger, the door under House's hand phasing out from chipped white paint to a heavy dark wood. "You won't be happy," Crandall said, and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

House jerked awake at the sound. He was home. The TV was still on, Harrison Ford was still saving the day. The couch under his back was leather, not cheap cloth. The bookshelves lining the wall were filled with his things, with Stacy's things, with everything they'd bought together.

He heard water running in the bathroom and wondered if Stacy had meant to slam the door. Maybe she did.

He sat up slowly, easing his leg off the couch. He should go to bed, before Stacy came back in the room, asking him if he needed anything again.

Maybe Wilson was right, maybe Stacy was just trying to help, but Crandall ... Crandall had been wrong. Crandall didn't know anything. He wasn't alone. He was never alone. Stacy was always there.

And what if she wasn't? House grabbed his crutches from the floor next to the couch, eased himself up. He heard the water shut off as he made his way to the bedroom.

Maybe if she wasn't there, he could finally get some sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

He dreamed he was flying. He felt the vibration of the engines up through the floor and into his shoes, his feet, his legs. He leaned forward to look out the window. There was nothing below them but blue water and white clouds. For a moment he thought he glimpsed the plane's shadow on the waves, but it disappeared as the plane banked to the left.

Mom still held her newspaper, the pages folded back to the crossword puzzle, but her head was back against the seat, her eyes closed. If he'd said something, she'd jerk awake, and claim she hadn't been sleeping, just resting her eyes. She always fell asleep on long flights. Greg never could. There was too much to see.

The man in the row in front of them was wearing a suit when they boarded. He'd taken off his jacket and draped it over the empty seat next to him, but Greg had seen the tie still knotted around his neck when he'd called the stewardess over to order a drink. Greg peeked through the space between the seats and saw a briefcase on the floor next to the man's legs and pages of typewritten notes spread across the seat tray. Every few minutes the man would write a few words next to one of the paragraphs. Maybe the man was selling something in Japan. Maybe he was buying something. Greg hadn't decided yet.

Three rows behind them, a woman was trying to quiet her baby. She'd gotten on the plane in San Francisco, and Greg recognized some of the papers she'd been carrying -- the familiar list of instructions for families headed to overseas bases.

Mom had the same list in her bag, which was now stashed in the overhead compartment. Dad was already at the new base. He'd given them a quick call when he got there, and told them their base housing was smaller than they'd had in South Carolina, so they shouldn't bring much.

Mom boxed up most of her books and her mother's china and shipped them to her family in Florida to store until they got back to the states. "It won't be for long," she'd told Greg, as he sorted through his things to decide what to keep, what to throw away, and what to ship south with her things. "You'll see them again."

There was no point in getting upset, Mom always said. Nothing he said could stop the Marines from moving Dad to a new base. Dad always said it was his duty to go where the Marines sent him. Mom said their duty was to follow Dad. "But we're lucky, aren't we," she'd always say whenever they boxed up everything they owned. "We get to see the world."

Greg had nodded. It didn't matter what he wanted. They'd pack, and throw things away and change, and then do it all over again in a few months -- a year at the most. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

The plane bumped as it hit turbulence, then bumped again. The baby started crying. The man in front of him sat a little straighter, looked up from his papers.

Greg went back to looking out the window. It was just turbulence, pockets of warm and cold air colliding. He looked down at the clouds, trying to see if he could spot where the atmosphere had gone rough, the lines where high and low pressure met. The seat jolted again, rougher this time. They'd be out of the pocket soon. The pilot would climb higher, or drop until the flight smoothed out.

Everything would be fine.

He felt the bumps again, then the ride grow even rougher. The sound outside changed, and the vibration felt different under his feet as the tires slid from asphalt to gravel.

Asphalt, he thought. Tires.

He opened his eyes and there was a blinking barricade outside his window, a construction worker flagging the car past him. Wilson turned left, followed the line of cars down the one-lane detour. "Sorry," he said, "I thought they weren't starting this project until next week."

"It's OK," House said, and rubbed his eyes.

Rehab was a bitch, and he was finding it hard to remember why he'd agreed to the 8 a.m. appointments. Probably because it had been easier for Stacy. She could drive him in, drop him off, then head to the office and forget about him. The last few weeks Wilson had been the one showing up sometime before noon to take him home.

"Stacy's tied up in a meeting," he'd said the first time.

"Stacy got called in to court," he'd said the next time.

"She's waiting for a call," he'd said the third time.

The fourth time, he'd just looked at House and shrugged. "You ready?" he'd asked, and never bothered with another excuse.

It was better this way, House told himself. Stacy always seemed to either rush ahead to open doors, or lag behind, reminding him with every step how slow he was now. Wilson just strolled beside him.

Stacy always wanted to know how the session went and if he'd made progress. Wilson told him about the latest hospital gossip.

Stacy fidgeted as he climbed in the car, reaching over to give him a hand when he didn't need one, nearly knocking him over in her clumsy attempts to support him. Wilson waited while House settled himself into the seat, then tossed the crutches into the backseat without a word.

"I grabbed your mail," Wilson said, turning the car from the rough road back onto asphalt as the detour ended.

"Stacy said she was going to get it," House said. He watched the bored faces staring out from the cars backed up in the opposite lane, drivers waiting their turn in the construction zone. There was a business man in a BMW, a student in a Civic, a housewife with screaming kids in a minivan.

Wilson shrugged. "I was passing by your office anyway."

They passed a furnace repair van, the driver sipping a Coke. "I asked Stacy to pick it up."

"What difference does it make?"

The traffic cleared after an SUV and Wilson picked up speed. "None, I guess."

Wilson glanced over at him. House thought he was going to say something, but then Wilson turned back to look out at the windshield again.

"Vandemeer asked about you," he said.

"She probably wants to know when she can take over my office."

"No," Wilson said. "No, she ..." His voice trailed off, and House braced himself.

"She's moving," Wilson said, "to Boston."

House let out his breath. "So she got the Harvard job," he said. "Is that all?"

"They were considering you once," Wilson said. "I thought maybe you'd be disappointed."

House shook his head. "I let them buy me a few dinners," he said. "Stacy was the one who wanted it. She thought Boston was a better town." He stared out the window as they passed the Wawa two blocks before home, then the long row of apartments and condos that divided the students' neighborhoods with the residential district. Wilson slowed to make the left turn onto Baker. "Maybe she'll end up there yet," House said.

"House, don't ..." Wilson sighed, but didn't say anything else and completed the turn. There was a spot open in front of the building, and he pulled up to the curb.

He paused just a moment after he turned off the ignition, and House already had his door open, had swiveled around with both feet on the sidewalk by the time Wilson grabbed the crutches. Wilson waited while House pushed down on the car door and the frame to get himself up on both feet and took the crutches.

House heard the car door close behind him as he lurched up the first step, then the sound of Wilson's footsteps as he pushed open the front door of the building. He turned and looked back. "I don't remember inviting you in," he said.

"I'm hungry," Wilson said.

"Guess you didn't notice, but there are plenty of restaurants between here and the hospital," House said. He entered the small lobby, then fished his key out of his pocket and put it in the lock. He was able to put more weight on his leg than he'd managed even a week ago -- was even able to free up his hands for a few seconds at a time -- but he still felt off balance, forced to rely on the crutches for every step.

"I just want a sandwich."

"I've even heard rumors of something called a cafeteria at the hospital." He pushed the door open and Wilson followed.

"I told you about the salmonella incident last week, right?"

"I'm sure the final report will cover up all evidence of the intentional poisoning designed to increase the emergency room's monthly finance report."

House stopped at the couch and lowered himself down. Wilson glanced at him, then continued into the kitchen. "You want one?" he asked.

"Sure," House said. He rubbed a hand across his face. A few months ago, he would have been finishing up rounds at the hospital about now, taking the stairs two at a time rather than wasting time waiting for the elevator, grabbing a run after work or a looking for a pickup game of some kind, and he'd still have the energy that night to leave Stacy breathless. Now a morning sitting on his ass stretching abused muscles or making a few pitiful inches of progress along the parallel bars made his joints ache and left him exhausted.

"Turkey OK?" Wilson's voice interrupted House's thoughts.

He nodded. "Sure."

"Mustard?"

"Whatever."

Now he didn't even have the energy to drag himself into the kitchen to make his own sandwich. Let Wilson do it.

"Want something to drink?"

House didn't bother answering. Wilson would know to bring him something anyway.

A few moments later he heard the water running, then Wilson was walking through the door, a plate in one hand and a glass in the other. "Don't bitch," he said. "If you're not going to tell me what you want, you'll just have to take what I give you."

House rolled his eyes, but took a drink. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. Wilson stepped into the kitchen again, then was back. He stood near the doorway, chewing and looking at the boxes stacked in one corner.

House followed his gaze. "It doesn't mean anything."

Wilson turned and looked at him. He didn't say anything, just raised his eyebrows.

"Stacy said she just wanted to move some things around."

Wilson crouched down and opened on of the boxes. He moved something inside it, then put it back and looked up. "And the fact that she's only moving her own things doesn't mean anything?" He stood again, took a few steps over toward House. "You notice everything. Why are you ignoring this?"

"I'm not ignoring it," House said. He took a bite of his sandwich and swallowed. Wilson was still staring at him.

"Have you even talked to her about it?"

"She said she's not going anywhere."

"Even you don't believe that."

House shrugged, took another bite. "Fine," he said, "let's pretend it means something. What am I supposed to do? Lock her in her room?"

"Of course not." Wilson walked across the room, sat on the other end of the couch. "Handcuffs and chains would be a little extreme even for you. I'd recommend starting with something simple. Talk to her."

"You want me to beg?" House shook his head.

"I didn't say that," Wilson said, "and what if I did? Would that be so bad?"

House didn't have an answer. Wilson didn't seem to expect one. He took another bite of his sandwich, then stood up. "I've got to get back," he said.

He walked to the door, and paused a moment before walking out, looking at the room, at the boxes, at House, sitting there alone. "Talk to her. Before it's too late," he said, and walked out.

House dreamed of music. He was in the last row in the balcony at the Michigan Theater, the wooden wall hard against the back of head. Crandall was on stage, putting all of his energy into "My Favorite Things." House had always told him he was a fool for wanting to play it in concert.

"Nobody wants to hear your cheap white bread remake," was the way he'd put it. He'd been wrong. Crandall's take played with some of Coltrane's themes, but gave them a lighter touch, took a different tempo and drew them out into something that respected Coltrane while still allowing Crandall to come through.

And the new piano player added a different dimension to Jamerson's playing -- his bass lines sliding into something more fluid than House had heard before -- while also managing to tighten up Crandall's timing. House had never been able to do that. House had never even really tried.

They finished to some halfhearted applause from the half-filled house. Everyone else was waiting out in the lobby, sipping wine and waiting for the main attraction.

"Thanks," Crandall said from the stage, his amplified voice distorted as it bounced off the walls. "We'll wrap up with this next one, but we'll be out in the lobby later. Stop by and say hello."

House didn't recognize the song. It was an original, and House guessed it was something else from their new pianist. He started with an F, then moved up the scale to B flat, then C and E flat before dropping down to a D. The notes wrapped around, the chords returning to their start as Jamerson jumped in, then Crandall. They took the simple melody and added to it, played with time signature, moved smoothly from major to minor keys. It was something House knew he would have never been able to write, barely would have been able to play. His left hand was never as fast, never as nimble as he wanted.

He sat forward, elbows on his knees, his hands on the backs of the chairs in the row in front of him, tried to picture his fingers hitting those notes. He couldn't.

It wasn't just the new manager that was getting them new gigs. They were better without him.

He headed for the aisle before the last notes even faded, forcing his way past two gossiping women clogging the seats at the end of the row. He worked his way down the stairs, against the flow of people moving up to take their seats.

He should stay for Corea. He'd paid extra to the scalper for the last minute ticket, and would have to pay for the night again at New Year's by taking Stein's shift. It didn't make sense to leave early.

He didn't care. He reached the lobby, turned right, and pushed his way to the exit.

"G-Man!" He heard Crandall's voice, and caught a glimpse of his face, saw him waving. "Hey, G-Man!" Crandall called again. House just turned around and left.

It was cold outside, autumn finally setting in after a long hot summer, and he buttoned his coat. He turned to the left, the light from the marquee fading away behind him.

House walked to the end of the block, turned left again, headed for home.

He heard footsteps coming up fast behind him, and the street noise seemed to fade away. For a moment, he almost believed that if he didn't turn around, he'd go away.

"Didn't you hear me?" He felt Crandall's fingers on his sleeve, and stopped. "I called you," Crandall said.

"I know." House finally turned. Crandall was wearing the brown blazer that was his favorite, and his face was still lined with sweat from playing under the hot lights. "I was ignoring you."

Crandall shook his head and smiled. "I'm glad you came, even if you are a complete bastard."

House leaned back against the brick wall of a record shop that had already closed for the night. "Where'd you pick up the piano player?"

"Kurt? Would you believe it? We found him at a Holiday Inn in Connecticut." He laughed. "A Holiday Inn. The idiot doesn't know how good he is."

"But you do."

"I always had an ear for talent."

House looked down, saw that Crandall was wearing the same old boots he'd always worn. "He's good." He looked up again. "You plan on letting him know that, or just going to string him along for as long as you can?"

"You're the one with the devious mind, not me," Crandall said. "I keep telling him, but he doesn't believe me." He nodded back at the direction of the theater. "You should meet him."

House shook his head. Why, so they could all brag about how good the golden boy was? How much better they were doing without him? "I'm busy."

"What? No. You're here. Let's go." Crandall turned toward the alley that led to the stage entrance. House didn't follow him.

"G?"

House made it two steps away from him before Crandall was there again, stepping in front of him this time. "Why are you like this, G?"

"I'm a bastard. Why else?"

"No, we're ... we're friends, right?"

"Look," House sighed, "you've got your boy genius piano player. He's better than I ever was and you know it."

Crandall had that confused look on his face again. "Did you think that's all it was? That I only hung out with you because of the music?"

"Why ..." House stopped. It was warmer than he'd remembered that night. He was warmer than he'd been just a few minutes ago. His coat wasn't buttoned.

This was different. This was wrong. He looked at Crandall again. Crandall hadn't been wearing that blazer that night. He'd been dressed all in black up on the stage. The blazer was one he'd worn back when they first met, when they first formed the band. "This never happened," House said.

Crandall nodded. "Of course it did."

"No." House looked at Crandall again. Studied him from head to toe. Crandall had lost those boots two years earlier, when they were rushing out of a hotel room to avoid paying for an extra day.

"Sure it did. You came to the show. I saw you."

"But you didn't catch up to me. We never talked." House stepped back. "This ..." he waved at the empty street, the clear warm night sky, at Crandall, "This didn't happen."

"I'm pretty sure you never banged Pamela Anderson, but that never stopped you from dreaming about that either."

"Pamela Anderson is a hell of a lot prettier and less annoying than you." House wondered why he wasn't waking up. "And she doesn't talk."

"Maybe that's why I'm here. Maybe you need to talk." Crandall -- or the dream that insisted on calling itself Crandall -- leaned back against the wall in an alley that shouldn't be there. "Maybe you need to think about how you're screwing things up again."

"I'm not ..."

"Of course you are. That's why she's leaving."

House turned to walk away, but didn't move. He told himself that he wanted to move. He wanted to wake up. But he couldn't. If this was a dream, he should be able to control it. Finally he sighed, stepped back over to Crandall. "So I suppose this makes you the ghost of Christmas past?"

"Why not?"

"Right," House shook his head, "and Wilson is the ghost of Christmas present."

"If that would make you listen." For a moment House thought he saw Wilson there, standing next to Crandall, thought he heard his voice, but he blinked and Crandall was alone.

"Too bad for you I don't believe in ghosts," House said, "or Christmas."

"Or friendship?" Crandall asked, "or me?"

"Especially not you."

Crandall stepped forward. "What about her?"

There was no point in answering, House thought. His subconscious already knew the answer.

"So what do you believe in?" Crandall asked.

House took one more look at him, then stepped back and let the night turn cold again. "Me," he said, and walked away.

Crandall faded into the dark, into the alley that wasn't there anymore. House heard cars passing in the street, then a bus. Someone honked a horn, and his eyes flew open.

Stacy was just walking in the door, the sound of the city fading as the outside door closed behind her, then quieted as she stepped inside and closed their front door.

"Hi," she said, and took off her coat. "Did I wake you up?"

House shook his head. "It's OK," he said. "I didn't want to sleep anymore." He looked up at her. "Thanks."

She stopped, looked at him. "Sure." She looked like she wanted to say more, to ask him something. She raised her eyebrows, took a deep breath, but then shook her head and walked into the bedroom.

House eased himself up on the couch, turned slightly to slide his leg down onto the floor. He could see the light come on from the closet, and heard the sound of her steps change as she took off her shoes, stepping lightly now on bare feet.

"You have anything interesting today?" The question sounded awkward even to him. He wasn't sure why he'd even asked.

She stepped back in the living room, her face once again looking like she was on the edge of a question. He wondered if this was how she looked in court, when she was listening to the other side's attorney, trying to judge what he'd planned to say to try to trip her up. "Not really," she said. She sat in an armchair and put on her socks, then an old pair of leather slippers. She sat back and looked at him. "Why do you ask?"

House shrugged. "No reason."

"What did you do this afternoon?" She seemed hesitant when she asked, though House wasn't sure why.

"Caught up on some journals," he said, "watched some TV. The usual."

"And how is life in Port Charles. Anyone get killed today?"

"It's Thursday. They save the maimings and murders for Fridays to bring you back on Monday."

Stacy smiled a little. House realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her smile. "And what about kidnappings?"

"That's strictly a Monday event, especially during sweeps month. It's supposed to keep you tuned in all week."

"I'm not sure if I should be reassured or worried that you know this," Stacy said.

"Well, I've had plenty of time to bone up," House said, and Stacy's smile was gone.

She got up, walked into the kitchen and turned on the light. "How does pasta sound?" she asked.

"Fine." House wasn't sure if he should have said something different. He wasn't even sure if he cared. He sat up. It wasn't worth even thinking about. He grabbed his crutches and pushed down on the arm of the couch and one crutch until he was standing.

He maneuvered himself past the coffee table, around the armchair and to the piano. He put his right hand on the keyboard, not certain what to play, waiting to hear what notes his fingers picked out.

F. B flat. C. E flat. D.

He repeated the notes again, then bringing in the chords his memory supplied, and added his left hand. He couldn't create the same twisting tempo, so he improvised -- slowed things down until he created a rough imitation.

"That's pretty." Stacy stood in the doorway, the light behind her from the kitchen. "I haven't heard you play it before."

"It's something I heard once," House said.

He added to the melody, tried to improvise, to see if he could follow the unfamiliar tune. Stacy's shadow hovered over the black lacquer finish of the piano, moving slightly in time with the music. He watched her shape as it moved, remembered a time when she would have come over and sat next to him on the bench.

She didn't do that anymore.

Maybe she was afraid to. Maybe she didn't want to.

He could hear Wilson's voice in his head, telling him that maybe he should ask her what she wanted. Maybe he should tell her that he missed her.

Maybe you need to talk, Crandall had said. No. That wasn't Crandall. Just another dream.

He saw her shadow move, slide away from the piano. Away from him.

"Stacy?" he asked.

She walked back into the living room. "What?"

Even if he asked, she could still leave. He couldn't force her to stay. There was nothing he could do stop her. There was no point in even trying, and he wasn't sure if he wanted her to stay anyway.

He shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "Forget it."

He turned back to the piano. F. B flat. C. E flat. D.

Stacy's shadow lingered there for a moment longer, then disappeared.


	5. Chapter 5

He dreamed of a fence. He stood, staring through the chain links, past barbed wire to the mud and spare tufts of grass beyond. "No man's land," Dad said. "This is the end of the world."

"It's not the end of the world," Mom said. "It's just the end of our world. Their world begins here."

She hadn't been happy about Dad's unannounced stop. She'd even asked why he wanted to come to South Korea in the first place. "You don't have that many days off," she'd said, when he laid out his plans. "Why not stay home and relax? Or go to Tokyo?"

But Dad had insisted, telling her Seoul was a beautiful city and that she'd love the palaces and temples. He hadn't told her that he'd made arrangements to show them the DMZ until that morning.

"Isn't it dangerous?" she'd asked.

"I'll be with you the whole time," he'd said, " and it's important that we go."

"Why?" Greg had asked.

"Because it's why I do what I do." Dad put his hands on Greg's shoulders. Dad's eyes had that fierce glare that was always there when he said Greg needed to learn a lesson. "I want you to understand how important our job is."

Greg hadn't asked again.

Dad handed Greg a pair of binoculars. "Look there," he said, and Greg followed his finger out across the border. There, at a guard post on the other side of the fence, a North Korean soldier stared at him through his own binoculars, the sun glinting off the glass.

"He's jealous of everything you have," Dad said. "He wants what you have -- a family, money, a future. This fence is the only thing stopping him from coming over here and taking it."

"This fence and 30,000 soldiers," Mom said.

"Absolutely," Dad said. He seemed to miss the joking lilt in Mom's voice that made Greg smile. "If he tries to cross over this fence, everything ends. This is the end of his world."

"And the start of ours," Mom said, and winked at Greg.

Dad grunted, but Greg saw a slight smile on his face as he handed the binoculars back to the Marine standing next to him at the guard post.

Greg took one more look out across the fence, past the border, past the scrub brush, to the hill beyond. He couldn't see anything beyond the hill except one soldier, alone at his post. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe this was the end of the world.

"Let's go," Dad said, and started down from the guard tower, his boots landing heavily on each wooden step: thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. Mom followed him, her steps lighter than his: tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

He frowned. There were only five steps, but he could still hear her steps continue beyond those five, then becoming more syncopated than her normal walk: tap, tap, tap-tap, tap-tap-tap.

He opened his eyes, saw the narrow walls of his office, his books in the shelves crammed under the window. "Damn," House said, and rubbed his eyes. At least he'd fallen asleep with the door closed. The last thing he needed was for O'Neal and the rest of the department morons to think he couldn't hack it back at work.

It was bad enough seeing their eyes following him everywhere, offering to get him coffee or water. "I'm going to grab a bagel, you need anything from downstairs?" Thompson had asked him on his second day back, ignoring everyone else in the room. House shook his head. The last time Thompson had offered him anything it was to give him the directions to hell.

"If I want something, I'll get it myself," House had said.

"Well, let me know if you're going down to the cafeteria," Thompson had insisted. "I can carry your tray for you."

House had just gotten up, concentrating on making every step as smooth as possible -- the cane in his right hand, his foot gliding over the floor.

"I'll be here," Thompson called after him.

"That's bad news for everyone else," House had said, "especially your patients."

Wilson had helped him set up a deal with O'Neal that would get him back in the office: half days, consulting only, no regular patients.

"Until you're ready," O'Neal had said. He'd been too anxious to agree to the arrangements. House suspected that the hospital board had pressured the department head to accept anything House asked for.

"Nothing like the threat of a lawsuit to get you whatever you want," House had said.

"You're bitching about the way you got everything you wanted?" Wilson had asked.

"I also demanded the right to bitch in my new contract," he'd said.

Stacy hadn't commented on the negotiations. She barely talked at all anymore -- at least she didn't talk to him. After a brief détente, they'd crossed back into open warfare during the winter, as House's pain grew worse with every cold, dark day and Stacy never seemed to understand when she should just leave him alone.

By February, they'd entered their own cold war, somehow ignoring each other when they were in the same room, even in the same bed.

Most nights now House went to bed hours after she'd slipped into the bedroom without a word, when he was sure she'd either be asleep or faking it. He didn't care which, as long as she didn't try to talk to him.

He'd lie awake, listening to her breathe and wishing for silence. Some nights he rarely slept at all, or he'd bunk out on the couch, trying to at least drift off for a couple of hours.

"You shouldn't sleep there," she'd said one night. "It's bad for your leg."

"But better for my peace of mind," he grumbled, and she hadn't mentioned it again.

After she left for work, he'd down a Vicodin and limp his way into the bedroom, sleeping on top of the covers so he wouldn't catch her scent in the sheets.

But now he'd started going in for a few hours each morning, ignoring every ache in his body that begged him to lie down, to take a break when he wouldn't give it. He'd sat down behind his desk sometime around 11 o'clock, meaning just to close his eyes for a moment. Now an hour had slipped by.

Tap. The sound again at the door. Tap-tap.

"Yeah," he said.

Wilson pushed open the door and stepped in. "You ready?"

House sat up a little, biting down to stop himself from groaning when he shifted his leg. Wilson closed the door and walked into the office, taking a seat on one of the chairs shoved up against the wall. House used to keep them in the middle of the room, but the first day back, the office seemed like an obstacle course. Wilson had been the one to move them, just quietly pushing each chair to a new spot.

"I'm in no hurry," Wilson said. "I've just got paperwork this afternoon. The last thing I want to do is hurry back to my desk."

"Of course you do." House moved slowly, a few inches at a time as if he could somehow sneak past the pain. "You'll probably even work late just to make sure some poor secretary gets her file on time so she can toss it on a pile and forget about it for the next month." He was on his feet now, giving himself time to balance before he let go of the desk and reached for the cane. "I don't actually blame you for that. Jewish guilt -- it's in your DNA."

"And where does your asshole DNA come from, the Dutch or the English side of your family?"

"Dutch," House said. "Definitely from my Dad."

House took one step, paused for a moment, then stepped forward again, then again, felt himself easing into his lopsided cadence across the room. Wilson stood and walked toward him, waiting for House to open the door and step out into the hallway before he followed him.

House locked the door behind them, then turned to head down the narrow hallway that led from the infectious diseases department and out to the main hall that led to the main part of the building. He moved a little smoother as his muscles loosened up, but he knew that brief glimpse of relief wouldn't last long. Fifty, sixty steps maybe and a new pain would start to take hold -- the pain that wouldn't go away, that would burrow itself deeper and deeper with each step until it reached bone, then into his marrow. House still half expected to see something there on every follow-up scan he'd had, something with teeth.

"So ..." Wilson said, "I was thinking we could grab lunch on the way back. Maybe some sushi."

"I'm not hungry."

"It's after twelve," Wilson said, "nearly 12:30."

"I didn't know my appetite was on a schedule." He stood next to the elevator, waiting for it to appear. Standing was a waste of time. It didn't do anything to loosen cramped muscles, and just gave the nerve pain more time to appear. He hit the button again.

"That doesn't actually help, you know," Wilson said.

"We need an express elevator for cripples," House said, and Wilson raised his eyebrows. "No, think about it. We get special parking, we get to cut the lines as Disney World..."

"You'd willingly go to Disney World?"

"That's beside the point," House said.

"The point being the elevator," Wilson said, "for cripples."

"And their guests. You'd benefit. You should suggest it to the board."

"But then we'd have to deal with that whole conflict of interest issue."

The elevator doors finally opened and House stepped in, Wilson alongside him. House stepped to the back of the car, putting his left hand on the rail for extra support while Wilson hit the button for the lobby. "Conflict of interest is wussy excuse."

"You always telling me I'm a wuss. I'm living up to your standards." The elevator doors opened on the lobby and House stepped out, feeling the change in the surface of the floor from the elevator's carpet to the lobby's tile. "So, no sushi?" Wilson asked.

House shook his head.

"It's two-for-one pizza day at Gino's."

"Order takeout."

"I mentioned the paperwork I'm trying to avoid, right?"

"So pick it up and bring it back to the apartment. You can eat there, far away from the big, bad paperwork."

Wilson shook his head. "What about the buffet at Chan's?"

House sighed. They were nearing the lobby door. The skies were dark beyond the glass, and he felt the wind blast through when someone triggered the sliding doors. The parking lot seemed too far away. He took two steps to the side. "Just," he said, "just go get the car."

Wilson nodded, and turned to leave. "Chan's," he said, "think about it. You know you love their hot and sour soup."

House didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about being anyplace other than stretched out on the soft mattress, maybe with a heating pad wrapped around his leg. Usually Wilson would take him home, maybe grab a bite to eat, then rush out again, giving House time to sink into something close to sleep for a few hours. Sometimes, if he was lucky, even his dreams were too tired to emerge.

He thought Wilson understood that, but now here he was, going on about lunch. And Gino's pizza may be good, but it took 45 minutes for the deep dish that House loved. Forty-five minutes, House thought. And the sushi place Wilson loved had an elaborate service that seemed to take as long as a formal tea ceremony.

Chan's buffet was easy, but it was across town, in midday traffic.

Wilson's car pulled up to the entry and House stepped out, feeling the way his muscles tightened again even in the few minutes it took in the cold to take the five steps to the car, open the door and climb in.

Wilson put the car in drive and pulled away from the door. "So," he said, "Chan's?"

House stared out the window. "She tell you to keep me away from home a little longer?"

"What?"

"Stacy." House let the name sit there for a moment. He wondered when the last time was that he'd even said her name. "She called you a few minutes ago, and asked you to stall, probably called just as you were on your way out the door. Any earlier and you'd have had time to come up with an actual plan."

Wilson was silent, not confessing but not denying it either. House saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel.

"She give you a reason why?"

Wilson took a breath, held it, let it out. He looked left for traffic, then right, taking a glance at House. "She wouldn't say," he said. "I asked, but ..." He shrugged and turned right out of the parking lot. Toward home. Not toward Chan's.

"She probably has the movers there, taking her stuff," House said.

"You don't know that."

House looked over at him, caught Wilson's eye for a moment. Wilson looked away, out the windshield.

"Take me home," House said.

Wilson glanced over again. "You sure?"

House wasn't, but nodded.

There was no moving truck out front when they got there. No sign that anything had changed since that morning. House wasn't sure what that meant. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe she'd changed her mind.

He stepped out of the car, up onto the sidewalk. Wilson turned off the ignition, started to follow him. House shook his head. Wilson paused for a moment, then nodded. "Call if you need ... anything."

House waited until Wilson was in the car, and the car had rounded the corner before he took the first step up to the door, then the second. He pushed open the outside door, closed it behind him and stared at his own door for a moment. He reached out, but didn't put his hand on the knob. Not yet.

Maybe it would all change on the other side of that door. Maybe it wouldn't. Right now, he still had both possibilities, with Stacy playing the part of Schrodinger's cat.

He lowered his hand, put it on the brass knob and turned.

The door was unlocked and he pushed it open, stepped across the threshold.

The lights were off, and Stacy sat on the couch, her body looking pale in the dim winter light. Her coat was slung across a chair near the door and she had her arms wrapped around her torso. The boxes that had been stacked in the corner were gone. So were a few more of her things from the table and her grandmother's china cabinet. House closed the door behind him, and waited for her.

She didn't say anything for a minute, didn't even look at him.

"I was going to write you a note," she said finally breaking the silence, "but that didn't seem right."

House held back the part of his brain that wanted to say that she hadn't had any problem with writing the orders that signed away his life before. He didn't know why.

"I didn't want this to happen," Stacy said. "I didn't think it would, but ..." She looked over at him. "I can't do this anymore. I can't live like this, Greg. I've lost you, and some days I think I'm losing myself too."

"So you'll just throw it all away, everything we've had?"

"What we had has been gone for months." She shook her head. "Sometimes I wonder if we really had anything at all. Maybe because it was fun, we could make believe that we had something else, something real." She stood up finally, turned toward him. "Something that would last."

"Maybe," House said, "maybe it could be fun again." He spoke quickly, trying not to think about what he was saying. If he thought too much, he wouldn't be able to say anything, wouldn't be able to decide what to say.

She shook her head.

"We could try," he said.

"I did."

"Maybe ..."

Stacy stepped closer to him. "Don't say that you'll change, because you know that's a lie. We both do."

"I could try."

She stepped next to him. Her eyes were red, but she wasn't crying. Not now anyway. "Too late," she said.

She placed one hand against his cheek, but pulled away when he reached for her. She picked up her coat and her purse and stepped to the door. She took a key from her key ring and placed it on the table.

She reached for the door, hesitating for just a moment.

"Stay," House said.

She looked back at him. "No," she said, and walked out.

House dreamed ... hell, maybe it wasn't a dream at all. Enough Vicodin, enough alcohol and he couldn't say what was real anymore, except for the fact that Stacy was gone and Wilson had passed out sometime after the ouzo and before House opened the vodka.

Maybe Crandall really did stop by for a visit. Maybe that really was him sitting in the armchair across from Wilson.

"You gonna join me in a drink or not?" House asked, but Crandall didn't answer.

Crandall didn't touch the shot glass House put in front of him either, so House downed the shot for him. "You always were a picky drinker," he said. "If it wasn't an authentic booze that one of your great men favored, you wouldn't touch it, but hell, any old rot gut that they pawned off on you with a stupid story and you'd drink yourself stupid." Crandall stared at him, but still didn't say anything. "You probably would have taken that poison right along with Robert Johnson, if you'd had the chance."

House sat back on the couch. He head was swirling, but he still hadn't been able to forget, hadn't been able to let himself go. He wished he could just pass out, like Wilson, or not care, like Crandall.

"I care," Crandall said.

"Oh, he speaks." House applauded and Wilson jerked slightly in his chair, mumbled something under his breath and quieted down again.

"So does he," Crandall said, and nodded toward Wilson.

"Yeah, well he cares about every pathetic idiot." House looked from Wilson to Crandall, noting the same dark hair, the same close-set eyes, pictured the same expression on their faces whenever House said something they considered inappropriate.

"So does she," Crandall said.

"We're not talking about her."

Crandall shrugged. "You've gotten rid of two of us," he said, "when are you dumping him?"

"I didn't dump you," House said, "I just moved on."

"Felt like getting dumped to me."

"And I didn't dump her, remember? She's the one who walked out."

"Only because you pushed." Crandall looked around the apartment. He seemed to notice every empty spot on the shelves, the blank spot on the floor where the cabinet had been, the spot where her key still sat on the table. House wondered if he could even see inside the bedroom to the empty drawers.

"I warned you House," Crandall said, "you're going to end up alone."

"So are you," House said. "You think I don't know how your precious piano player ran off six months after you played in Michigan?"

"I knew we couldn't keep him forever, and I wasn't going to stand in his way," Crandall said.

"And Jamerson, he finally went into the family business. He actually started selling shoes just to get away from you."

"You seem to know a lot about me, considering you think you never cared."

"You're alone," House repeated.

"Maybe I am," Crandall said, "but I'm happy." He sat forward, his elbows on his knees. "Are you happy G? Have you ever been happy?"

House poured himself another shot. He didn't bother offering one to Crandall. He downed it and closed his eyes, heard Wilson snoring, heard the sound of the refrigerator compressor starting up, heard the pipes rattling in the apartment above his. He opened his eyes. Crandall was still there. "Damn."

"Happiness is overrated," House said.

"So are long runs in the park, but you seemed to enjoy those once upon a time."

House threw the empty glass at Crandall. It went wide, clanged heavily against the wall and fell to the floor. Crandall looked over at it, watched it as it rolled in an arc from side to side.

"Maybe you can still be happy," he said, and shrugged. "Maybe you're still going to end up alone."

"Is this the part where you tell me that all I have to do is change my ways and my life will be perfect? I already told you that I don't believe in that story."

"Maybe not perfect, but it doesn't have to turn into crap." Crandall leaned forward again. "Start small. Try not to piss off absolutely everyone." He looked over at Wilson. "No one should be alone."

House followed his gaze, looked at Wilson, slouched down in the chair so far he looked like he was about to slide off onto the floor. He looked back across the coffee table, but Crandall's chair was empty.

"Finally!" House shouted. "It's about time you left!"

Wilson jerked awake. "What?" He sat up and looked like he regretted the motion. "Was someone here?"

House stared at the empty space a moment longer, then shook his head. "Nobody," he said, "nobody who matters anyway." He looked over at Wilson. "Go back to sleep."

"No, I'm fine. I want to stay awake." He rubbed his eyes. "What were we talking about?"

House sighed. "I have no idea."

Wilson stood up, wobbling slightly before catching his balance.

"This might help," House said, and held out his cane.

"Less ouzo might have helped," Wilson said, and went into the kitchen.

"We already finished the beer," House called to him.

"I wasn't looking for beer."

He walked back into the living room with two cans of Coke. He held one out to House.

"I'm trying to cut down on caffeine," House said. "It makes me jittery."

House leaned his head back against the cushions and stared up at the pools of light on the ceiling from the lamps. He blinked and the light wavered for a moment, then steadied again. He was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of pain, tired of living. He closed his eyes again.

"Get some sleep if you want," Wilson said. "I'll be here if you need anything."

"You're always here," House said. That was a good thing. At least he thought it was.

"Do you want me to go? I could leave you alone for a while, if that's what you want."

House shook his head again, felt the room move beneath him. "No," he said, and looked over at Wilson. "Stay."

Wilson nodded. "Sure thing."

House slid down, rolled onto his side and positioned his leg over a pillow. He sensed the light change, grow dimmer as Wilson turned off one light, then another, leaving only lamp burning.

He heard Wilson sit in the chair again, heard him put his feet up on the coffee table. "Good night House," he said. "Sweet dreams."

-----------------------------

_ Epilogue: Three Years Later  
_

"Why are we here anyway?" Wilson shook his umbrella, water drops splashing onto the concrete, then followed House through the door.

"It's a book shop," House said. "It has books. I like books."

"And you hate rain," Wilson said.

"But I love flowers."

Wilson stared at him.

"April showers? May flowers? Ring a bell?"

"You hate flowers too," Wilson said.

"Not all flowers," House said, "just those annoying oversized, overpriced bouquets they sell in the gift shop." He walked steadily through the store, past the magazine rack, past the cookbooks and self-help books.

"They're a good profit center for the hospital," Wilson said.

"God, you aren't even on the board yet, and you're memorizing the budget line items?"

"You're the one who wanted me to join the board." Wilson dodged left around one of the bookshelves to avoid a reader who was planted in front of the science fiction section. "You're the one who said I should figure out how to find more money for your department."

"I wanted you to find money and take advantage of it, not turn into an accountant yourself."

House cut right into the alcove that held the music department. He ignored the racks of new releases and went past the boxed sets to the books on the shelf along the back wall. He started at the upper left corner, following the subjects listed in alphabetical order: AC/DC, the Allman Brothers, Louis Armstrong. He let his fingertips slide over the spines until he reached one he wanted.

He pulled it out, looked at the cover. "Jesse Baker: A Life in Jazz," the title read, then below it, in smaller type: "By Dylan Crandall."

House ran his hand over the cover. Hardcover. It was quality work on the binding, not one of those cheap trade paperbacks he'd seen Crandall's work printed in before, and a lot better than the alternative weeklies that ran Crandall's stuff when he was first starting out.

"Jesse Baker," Wilson said, reading over House's shoulder. "I don't think I've heard of him."

"That's because your education in jazz is sorely lacking."

Wilson reached for the book, took it out of House's hand and glanced over the back cover. "So teach me."

House shook his head. "That'll take time."

Wilson shrugged. "I've got time."

House looked at him. Dark hair, close-set eyes ... Wilson looked younger than Crandall, but then Crandall had looked a lot younger when they'd first met. He took the book back from Wilson. "This is the advanced course," he said, and reached on the shelf for one of the Armstrong biographies. He placed it in Wilson's hands. "Let's start here."


End file.
